For Her
by ParaCaerOuVoar
Summary: Before Castiel, before hell, before Azazel, there was only her. Now she’s gone, and he must carry on...for Her.


This was written for spn_teamfic, over at lj. The prompt was Crossover.

--

Rain fell from the sky, spattering on the ground, turning the earth to mud. A shadow stood in front of a grave, silent, unmoving. Droplets of icy water fell on his cheek, and he wiped them away, emerald eyes filled with sorrow.

His short hair was plastered to his head, and his long black coat was drenched, the thick material hanging wetly down his knees. The grave he stood in front of was simple, a block of black marble, a select few words carved into it.

HERMIONE WINCHESTER

BELOVED WIFE, SISTER,

FRIEND AND DAUGHTER

1980-2004

A tear rolled down his cheek, mingling with the rivulets of rainwater running down his face.

Not her. Anyone but her. This was his fault. He wasn't strong enough, fast enough, _good enough. _Dropping to his knees, he put his head in his hands and, for the third time in his life, Dean Winchester cried.

Memories flashed through his head, happy and sad, each one twisting into him like a knife every time he saw her face. He let free a choking sob as he remembered her eyes the last time he saw them, twin chocolate orbs flooded with fear. Not fear for herself though. Fear for him. Another face danced through his memories, one belonging to his brother.

Sam could have saved her. He had spooky demon shit going on, he could have saved her. Instead he watched her die in Dean's arms, by Dean's hands, Dean's knife protruding from her stomach.

For a long time after that he had shunned the hunt, pretty much just curling up in a ball and letting the grief take him.

Eventually he had uncurled to find a whole new world. Sure, it still hurt like hell, but what kept him going as the though that one day, he would wake up and it wouldn't hurt quite so much anymore.

But at the moment, he could still remember the day she died clear as day, a day he would relive every night until he was old and grey.

--

They were running, feet thudding over the grass, chests heaving. Running towards Dean's house, hoping-no, praying- that they would get there in time.

Skidding round a corner, Sam readied himself for what he might find. 'Dean, you gotta prepare yourself, man. This might not be your wife. It might-' Dean cut him off, denial written clear across his face.

'No, it won't, it can't, 'cos we're gonna get there in time.' He kept repeating it, over and over, like a mantra, his way of life.

They rounded another corner, and silently, Sam picked up speed, knowing that, if it came to it, he would be strong enough to do what Dean couldn't. His longer legs easily took him ahead of his brother and he was the first to see Dean's battered old 67 Chevy Impala in front of the house he shared with Hermione. He was the first to see the door hanging off its hinges, the doorway a gaping mouth. He could sense when his brother saw the door, because the footfalls behind him suddenly increased, and they got closer and closer until he was overtaking his brother pounding towards his home. Sam closed his eyes momentarily, praying to the heavens that she would be OK, that they would be in time.

Dean disappeared into the house, Sam only seconds behind him. 'Hermione!' he bellowed, wrenching the closed living room door open.

The scene was like something out of everyday life, as if there were no such thing as demons. Curled up on the sofa, her shiny brown hair tied back and her nose buried in a book was Hermione. She might be married to Dean, but she was beautiful in Sam's eyes as well. She looked up, and, instead of her normal brown eyes, they were black. Demon eyes. She smiled, and for a second she looked like Hermione again, until she threw the book to one side and flicked her hand outwards. Sam went flying through the door he had just burst through, and hitting the wall on the other side, hitting the wall with such an impact he cracked the plaster, before slumping to the floor, dazed. She turned and flicked her hand at Dean, but nothing happened. He stood there, tears brimming in his eyes, and he pulled a knife out of the holster under his jacket.

Suddenly, the demon convulsed, falling back onto the sofa, its limbs flailing. Thick black liquid dribbled out of the corner of its mouth and eyes, like inky tears. Slowly, as the demon seized, the eyes drained of liquid, and Hermione's brown eyes were back. 'Dean?' she gasped, and he dropped to his knees alongside her, cradling her head in his arms.

'It's me, I'm here,' he sobbed, burying his face in her hair.

'What happened?' she asked, wrapping her arms around his chest.

'I have no idea, but you're OK,' he said, more reassuring himself than her.

Across the hall, Sam stirred, tenderly prodding the back of his head where it had connected with the wall. 'Guys?' he called.

Dean reluctantly released Hermione and went to help his brother up, supporting him over to the couch. He flopped onto it with a groan. He was having trouble focusing on things, and he closed his eyes while the world stopped spinning. Dean left him to recover and went back over to his wife, pressing a kiss to her forehead. Unknown to him, but caught by Sam, who was watching them blearily, Hermione reached for the knife, left on the couch next to her.

'Dean!' he shouted, and she discarded all pretense, lunging for it, her eyes black once again. It was an act; the whole thing had been an act. Her eyes flickered, going from black to brown and back again, over and over. 'Fight it Hermione,' he urged her, gripping her tight enough to bruise. 'Fight it!'

Her eyes settled on brown, and she gasped for breath. 'I can't hold him for long,' she panted, 'Do it. Kill me.'

'No, I can't, I can't do it,' he cried, thrusting the knife away from himself.

She brought a hand up, running it down his face, caressing his cheek. 'Yes, you can,' she whispered. 'I know you can be the hero.'

Tears pouring down his face, his hands trembled as he picked up the knife, resting the point on her stomach. 'Goodbye,' he choked, closing his eyes. The last thing he saw were her eyes, the gorgeous melted chocolate eyes he had fallen in love with over a year ago. Steeling himself, he pushed the knife in, listening to the inhuman shriek from the woman he loved as the demon inside her died slowly and agonizingly, and so did she.

--

The rain slowed, and he looked up at the sky, as the clouds parted slightly, allowing a beam of light to shine down, lighting up the tombstone. Standing back from Dean, a small crowd of people paid their respects.

Sam towered over the rest of them, his hair in his eyes. Next to him were two people he had grown to consider family, two men who had been through so much and come out the other side, one ebony haired, the other with flame red tresses. They all stood in a group, remembering the angel that had been lost that day, two years ago.

John was there also, watching from the shadows, his translucent figure all but invisible in the dark. A tear dripped down his face onto the jacket he was wearing. Next to him stood a stranger, one who had been watching over Dean since his father's death eighteen months ago. His cream trench-coat was unmarked by the rain, and his dark hair was bone dry.

Slowly, they both turned and disappeared into the trees, vanishing without a trace. They both knew that Dean would eventually, move away from the grief, and his family was there for him, always.


End file.
